


Vacancy

by moonbobjohnson



Category: True Detective
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 06:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18544564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbobjohnson/pseuds/moonbobjohnson
Summary: Detective West’s personal number hides on a scrap of paper in the back of Tom’s wallet for years before he finally makes the call.





	Vacancy

Over the past few years, Tom has become well-versed in recognizing the pity in strangers’ voices and expressions. The cop in charge of the local drunk tank tonight feels sorry for him — he can tell when the man brings him out to the phone. Tom knows he must make for a sorry sight. His face is already swelling up, gone painful and sore. Every inhale whistles through his blood-clogged nose. He walks hunched over, stomach aching and probably as bruised as the rest of him, clutching his injured hand to his chest. The pain is only numbed by his drunkenness, though he’s not nearly as drunk as he’d like to be, the fight having interrupted him halfway through the process of getting there. The cop hands him the phone and Tom just stands there, holding it. The dial tone hums from the receiver.

“You got somebody you can call?” the cop asks.  
  
Tom thinks of his parents, two states and five hundred miles away in Shreveport. The last time he’d stayed with them, he’d managed some modicum of dignity until he couldn’t take it anymore and hit the nearest bar. They’d ended up having to bail him out after one thing led to another and somebody called the cops. Tom sat in the backseat of their car like a kid on the drive back, clutching a tissue to his bleeding nose. His mom tried to hide that she was in tears in the passenger seat, his father beside her driving with his mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. Tom left not long after that. He hasn’t seen them since then, hasn’t even called in a couple months. It’s not like there’d be any point to them driving eight hours out here when he can just spend another night in another drunk tank, anyhow. Which he would just as soon do, if he hadn’t left his car parked in the lot of that shitty dive bar, planted right in the bad part of town. All his earthly possessions are in its trunk.

“Could I get my wallet?” Tom mumbles. “I got a number written down in it.”

When the cop hands it over, Tom digs the scrap of paper from where it’s tucked between crumpled receipts and an old West Finger library card. The paper’s edges have gone soft over the years from being unfolded and refolded. Tom can’t recall how many times he’d been on the cusp of calling, only to fold it back up to tuck into his wallet. He’d never thrown it out, though. This time, Tom unfolds it and punches in the numbers. The phone rings twice before a groggy voice answers.

 

* * *

 

“Tom.”

He’s pulled from sleep by Detective West’s voice and a heavy hand on his shoulder. All these years and Tom still recognizes the man’s voice. He opens his eyes to find Detective West, looking more or less the same as Tom remembers him, hunched over the bench where Tom is dozing. He’s wearing jeans and a collared shirt with a sherpa-lined jacket tossed over it and that same concerned expression he had the day Tom left town for good. It’s a little like falling back in time. Like it’s ‘80 again and the closest thing Tom has to an anchor is waiting on this man to stop by again, bearing news about his missing kids.

“Ready to get on outta here?” Detective West asks, his hand still on Tom’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Tom rasps, awkwardly rolling himself off the bench to stand.

He can walk just fine, but Detective West guides him along with a firm grip on his upper arm anyway. They pass the other men sleeping it off in the holding cell. The new cop on duty hands Tom his belongings in a plastic baggie and then they’re out the door. The night air is cold and Tom thinks of his coat, probably still slung over a chair in the bar where he left it. He must shiver because Detective West comes to a stop and shrugs off his own jacket. Tom’s ready to protest the matter, but Detective West gives him a hard look like he knows exactly what’s about to come out of his mouth. He pulls the jacket on in silence instead, the material already warm with the other man’s body heat.

Detective West’s car is parked right near the station’s door. The dark road out front is almost all but empty at this hour. The smell of coffee and tobacco hits Tom as he slides into the passenger seat. There’s a styrofoam cup printed with a gas station logo sitting in the cupholder, but otherwise the car’s interior is clean. Detective West gets into the driver’s seat and shuts the door, but makes no move to start the car. He turns to look Tom over.

“You got someplace you’re staying?” he asks.

“You can just drop me off at my car,” Tom says. He licks over his dry lips, tasting blood. “Left it in a parking lot, I can give you directions.”

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Detective West scoffs.

Tom slides his gaze over to the other seat, finding Detective West staring him down, frowning. Tom shrugs in response. He could lie, but he doesn’t see much point in it. He knows he doesn’t look like a man who has a place to stay. It doesn’t take a detective to figure that one out.

“Look,” Detective West says, setting his hands on the steering wheel, “I just drove three hours in the middle of the damn night to get out here. All ‘cause you’re in such a bad spot you ain’t got nobody but me to call, so I’m not about to just dump off at your car. ‘Specially not in the state you’re in.”

“It’s fine—”

“No, Tom, it ain’t,” Detective West says, his voice firm. “Here’s what we’re gonna do — I passed a little hotel over by the highway. We’ll go get your car, then we’re gonna drive over there and I’m gonna get us a room. Then, I’m gonna sleep ‘cause I ain’t about to drive another three damn hours home right now and you’re gonna get yourself cleaned up. Alright?”

Tom knows the way Detective West is talking to him should piss him off, but he can’t seem to muster up the required anger. He finds himself relieved to be told exactly what to do next if anything. With his most recent years spent wandering lost through life, it feels good to hand over the reins. He sinks further down into the seat and nods.

“Good,” Detective West says and starts up the car.

 

* * *

 

The hotel out by the highway isn’t fancy by a long shot, but it’s a hell of a lot nicer than anyplace Tom’s stayed in as of late. It’s a squat, solid building done up in white siding and red brick, its sign lit up bright with an American flag waving above it. There’s a signboard out front advertising AFFORDABLE EXCELLENCE that they pass pulling into the parking lot. Tom parks his car beside Detective West’s. The lot around them is devoid of people, but crowded with minivans and station wagons. He rolls down his window when Detective West raps his knuckles against it.

“I’m gonna go get us a room,” he says, gesturing toward the bright lobby windows. “Might be best you stay here, considering the state you’re in.”

Tom nods in silence. He watches through the window as Detective West steps into the lobby with an easy smile to chat up the night clerk. He leans on the counter as he makes the transaction. His charm’s won the woman over if her laughter is any indication. Whenever she looks away, Tom catches how Detective West’s eyes slide back over to the window. He’s checking for Tom’s car like he’s worried given the opportunity, Tom might just decide to drive off instead. Tom stays put, waiting until Detective West comes back to step out of his car. The wind’s picked up some, but it’s bearable now with Detective West’s jacket’s wrapped around him.

“Got the room,” he says as he slides the keycard envelope into the pocket of his jeans. He considers Tom for a moment, then reaches out to flip his jacket collar up around Tom’s chin. “Just keep your head down, okay?”

They both grab overnight bags from their cars before heading into the hotel’s warmth. The clerk wishes them a good night as they pass through the lobby and Detective West smiles and nods, Tom at his side ducking his head down low. Tom walks alongside Detective West down a series of matching hallways. The first floor reeks of chlorine emanating from the little indoor pool they pass, lit up, but empty. The elevator is just past it. They take it up to the third floor and then down another hallway, everything quiet and deserted at this late hour. Detective West leads them to the end of the hall to their room.

Tom trails inside after him, flipping on the light switch at the door. The room is standard hotel fare: two beds topped with ugly bedspreads, a dresser with a television set on top of it, and a little wooden table with two chairs beneath the window. The curtains around the window match the bedspreads. There’s two bland paintings on the wall, one above each bed. The air is stale, underlaid with the faint, lingering smell of cleaning products. Tom tosses his bag onto the bed nearest to the door before sitting next to it, letting out a long, slow exhale. Detective West sets his own bag on the other bed and then just stands there, hovering.

“Spotted a pharmacy on the way in. I’m gonna go over there and pick up a few things.” He pauses. “That the extent of it?”

“What?” Tom mumbles, looking up at him.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Detective West clarifies.

Tom looks away again and shakes his head.

“What about your hand?” he asks, frowning.

“My hand’s fine,” Tom says like he isn’t still clutching it to his chest, his fingers curled into a loose fist.

“Sure,” Detective West scoffs. He tucks the keycard back into his pocket. “I’ll be right back.”

The door clicks shut behind him. Tom sits motionless on the bed, taking in just how exhausted he feels. His whole body feels like a heavy weight he’d like to shed. He prods at his face with his good hand, wincing, feeling dried blood scale off his skin in flakes. The pain’s only worsened with each hour that passes since his last drink. Clenching his teeth, he forces himself to stand again and wanders over to the window. It overlooks the parking lot, Tom’s car sitting below, the spot next to it now empty. Beyond that is the highway, followed by scattered buildings and trees, with rolling hills off further in the distance. He lets the curtain slip from his fingers and turns back towards the room.

There’s a sink set into a recess next to the bathroom door. Tom flicks on the light above it, squinting in the sudden brightness. He looks at the mirror and winces — between the bruises and the beard he hasn’t been shaving, he hardly recognizes his own face. Hissing in pain, he forces his fingers to uncurl and stretches them out gingerly. His wrist is swollen and his whole hand aches, but nothing seems broken. He focuses on washing the smears of dried blood from his hands, watching it run down the drain in red swirls. He pats his hands dry on one of the folded towels.

He’s about to lay back down when his eyes catch on Detective West’s bag. Memories of him and his partner rifling through his kids’ rooms come into his mind and his hands are on the bag before he can think too hard about it. He unzips it, shuffling through its contents. There’s not much, mostly a jumble of clothes — only half-folded like they were tossed into the bag in a hurry. There’s a little zippered case with toiletries inside. Tom’s fingers catch on a round bottle and he pulls it out. It’s a orange prescription bottle of Vicodin made out to Roland West, in the November of 1980, a handful of pills still rattling around inside. He pushes it back into the toiletry bag and zips it shut again, places it back where he found it. There’s nothing else of note.

Tom sits back down on his bed. He’s not sure what he expected. As if the man’s hastily packed overnight bag would reveal anymore than the man’s apartment did, for what he could remember of it between being drunk and then terribly hungover. He didn’t really expect Detective West to answer his phone. Never mind come to his rescue so quick and with that same look on his face he had worn the day Tom left. Sad, like he cares enough to be hurt by Tom hurting. Like Tom _means_ something to him.

He sighs, feeling his body ache in slow, low throbs. He lies down on the bed. The mattress is soft. Far softer than the beds in the cheap motels Tom sometimes shells out the money for when he’s in need of a shower. More often than not, he just sleeps in the back seat of his car, preferring to save his money for booze. His revolver is always tucked on the floor within easy reach as if someone shooting him in his sleep wouldn’t be doing him a favor. He dozes off, comfortable in the warmth of Detective West’s jacket, breathing in the faint smell of cologne on its collar.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the door closing startles him awake. Tom sits up, watching as Detective West sets a paper bag on the table below the window. He unpacks its contents: a bottle of ibuprofen, band-aids, a roll of bandages, Neosporin, and a box of plastic bags. A few steps back to the sink to dampen one of the hotel’s washcloths and then he’s pushing Tom’s bag away so he can sit next to him on the bed. Tom casts a wary eye his way, but if Detective West notices, he ignores it. He doesn’t ask permission, just brings the washcloth up and precedes to clean the dried blood from Tom’s skin. His hands are gentle on his face, slowing further every time Tom flinches. The coppery smell of blood fills the air around them.

“The guy have a ring on?” Detective West asks as he cleans a cut high on Tom’s cheekbone.

Tom grunts in confirmation. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, but it’s too uncomfortable to meet the other man’s eyes when he’s so close. He stares over his shoulder, but he can still see Detective West’s concerned expression looming in his peripheral vision, so he closes his eyes instead. It becomes strangely soothing after a while — the warm cloth moving slow over his face, Detective West’s fingers on his jaw to tip his head towards the light. He’s too exhausted to think hard about it, just relaxes into the gentle touch.

“Lemme take a look at your wrist,” Detective West murmurs, setting down the bloodied washcloth.

Tom blinks his eyes open again and holds out his arm. Detective West takes hold of his wrist in one hand, using his thumb to carefully feel around it. His thumb trails over his palm, down each of his fingers in turn. He flips Tom’s hand over.

“Looks like you got a couple of good hits in,” Detective West says quietly as he drags his thumb over his scraped up knuckles.

“For what that’s worth,” Tom manages, clearing his throat.

Detective West glances up at him, smiling a little. He releases Tom’s hand and stands. “Nothing seems broke. Your wrist might be sprained. You should grab a shower, then we can get you bandaged up. Should get some ice on it, too.”

Standing up to take a shower sounds like more effort than it’s worth, but Tom’s suddenly aware of his own body, being this close to Detective West who always looks so put together. Even looking at him now, no one would guess he was just pulled out of bed at a moment’s notice to drive all the way here. Tom thinks of his own reflection in the mirror. This shirt’s been on him for more than a couple days and his mouth still tastes sour from throwing up back in the holding cell. So, he forces himself up from the bed and shrugs off Detective West’s jacket before locking himself into the little bathroom.

The shower’s warmth is soothing, even as the water stings the cuts on his hands and face. He washes up, noting the bruises blooming across his stomach. If he looks bad tonight, he’s going to look awful tomorrow. He’s about to shut off the water when he catches sight of his blurry reflection in the shower’s metal knob. He slips a hand out from behind the shower curtain to rummage in his toiletry bag resting on the toilet tank.

When he emerges from the bathroom, Detective West is stretched out on his own bed, remote in hand, flipping through the channels. Catching sight of Tom’s clean-shaven face, he smiles a little. The smiles drops as his gaze falls to Tom’s bare, bruised torso. “Well, it’s a start. I’d say you look better if you weren’t black and blue. At this rate, we’d be better off filling the damn tub with ice and having you sleep in it.”

Tom shrugs, turning his back to look through his bag. He drops his towel, changing into a clean shirt and boxers. His neck prickles all the while — he isn’t sure if Detective West is watching him, or if maybe he just wishes he was. He’s by Tom’s side again as soon as he’s dressed and sitting back down on the bed. The Neosporin and bandages get set on the bedspread between them. Back in ‘80, Tom would’ve pushed his hands away. Back in ‘80, Tom might have turned tail and run the moment he had a chance, rather than sit still and let Detective West dab Neosporin on his cuts with the calloused pad of his index finger.

The ointment is followed by bandages, leaving a small pile of sterile wrappers between them on the bed. It reminds Tom of every time Will and Julie fell off their bikes when he was first teaching them. Hushing them as they cried, cleaning and bandaging their scrapes until they got too old to come to him for any kind of help. He should feel angry, patronized, but instead he’s just tired. So, he sits motionless, his eyes shut as Detective West bandages him up in silence. Everything around them is silent, like they’re the only ones in the hotel at all.

“Hold on,” Detective West says as Tom shifts restlessly on the bed, “just gotta get your wrist.”

He takes careful hold of Tom’s wrist, lifting it from his lap. His fingertips brush Tom’s bare thighs in the process and Tom fights down a shiver. He wants to pull away, but he lets Detective West take his time wrapping an elastic bandage around his wrist.

“That alright? Not too tight?”

“It’s fine,” Tom says, opening his eyes to find Detective West leaning far too close.

He flinches away without thinking. Detective West frowns and releases his hold. His weight lifts from the bed and Tom watches as he gathers everything up to place back on the table.

“You should take these,” Detective West says. He shakes a couple pills from the ibuprofen bottle and sets them on the bedside table with a glass of tap water. “There’s ice in the bucket by the sink, you should try to keep it on a bit before you crash.”

Detective West stretches back out on his own bed and resumes flipping through the channels, but Tom can feel his eyes on him, like he’s making sure Tom does as he’s told. He pops the pills with a swig of water, then ends up draining the entire glass. Then, he grabs the ice bucket and hauls it over to the bed. There’s several plastic bags packed with ice inside, which Tom fishes out one by one. One on his stomach, one on his wrist, one held to his face with his good hand. The hard edges of the ice cubes hurt at first, but then the numbness creeps in. At some point, he drifts off, only awakening when he feels fingers brush against his cheek. He flinches away, sending the mostly melted bag of ice tumbling from his face.

Detective West is leaned over him. He holds up his hands. “Sorry, just figured you didn’t want to wake up in a puddle.”

“Yeah,” Tom mumbles, catching up with his surroundings. He sits up and grabs the cold bag where from where it’s come to rest on the pillow next to his head.

“Feel any better?” Detective West asks as he collects the bags to empty into the sink.

“Little bit,” Tom says. He prods at his face. It’s still cold to the touch and mostly numb. “Better than before.”

“Well, good.” Detective West’s gaze moves over his face like he’s evaluating his own work. “You should get some rest.”

Tom moves his bag to the floor before sliding between the covers. Detective West reaches out to turn off the lamp, leaving them in darkness, though it won’t be long before the sky begins to lighten outside. Tom keeps his eyes open, letting them adjust to the dark. Detective West is nothing more than a silhouette against the dim light filtering through the curtains as he undresses. He strips down to his undershirt and boxers before pulling on a pair of flannel pants from his overnight bag. As he turns back around, Tom shuts his eyes. There’s the sound of the second mattress squeaking and sheets shifting. A soft, low sigh. Tom eases back into sleep.

 

* * *

  
The door to their room shuts with a crisp click, loud no matter how gentle you slide it shut. It pulls Tom from his sleep. There’s the taste of blood on his tongue, his split lip having reopened in the night. He hears Detective West moving around the room and smells coffee. Opening his eyes, he spies Detective West in fresh clothes setting a paper bag on the little table, the bottom of it spotted with grease, followed by a cardboard carton with two lidded cups in it. There’s weak morning light spilling in through the curtains — it’s probably still overcast if yesterday was any indication — and the low, consistent hum of the highway outside.

“What time’s check-out?” Tom mumbles, his throat dry and voice raspy. He pulls himself out from under the covers, sliding his bare feet onto the carpet.

Detective West turns to look at him. “We got the room ‘til Sunday.”

“What day’s it?” Tom asks, his voice straining at the end as he breaks into a yawn.

“Friday,” Detective West tells him. One corner of his mouth quirks up in amusement.

“Don’t you got work?”

Detective West gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I already called the station up, told ‘em I’m handling a family emergency. You hungry?”

Tom nods and rises from his bed, wincing as he stands. He sits across from Detective West at the little wooden table. Detective West eats a breakfast sandwich, then sits there sipping his coffee, watching Tom as he devours two sandwiches and a couple of hashbrown patties. In spite of most of his body feeling sore and painful, even his back strained from sleeping on the bench in the drunk tank, Tom finds he feels better just for being clean and well-rested. With his stomach full, even the slight headache that’s been lingering since yesterday night begins to recede.

“I was surprised to get your call,” Detective West says, setting down his empty cup. “Didn’t think I was ever gonna hear from you. You been in the area this whole time?”

“Here and there,” Tom offers, shrugging. The past few years have been a drunken grey blur. He thought about going farther away, but couldn’t bring himself to do it, just kept hanging around the periphery of the state. “Nothing too far.”  
  
Detective West nods. He’s chewing the inside of his lip, looking like he wants to inquire further, but he says nothing more.

“Didn’t think you were gonna pick up the phone. You do this often?”

“What?” Detective West’s concerned expression breaks as he grins. “Drive three hours to the middle of nowhere, Missouri at two in the goddamn morning? Yeah, I do it for all my old cases.”

Tom snorts, even as the words stab into his chest, aching like another bruise, another punch. He’d convinced himself that perhaps Detective West was just the type of man who did this for anyone in need of help. He forces out, “Why’re you doing it for me, then?”

“Maybe I like looking out for you. Is that some kinda crime?” Detective West asks, his expression fading back into somewhere between fond and worried. He’s meeting Tom’s gaze without flinching as he offers up the words.

Tom breaks eye contact first, staring back down at the table. “You’d know better than I would.”

“Should probably rinse your face off and switch out the bandages,” Detective West tells him as he stands. “Looks like some of those cuts reopened.”

They end up in the same position as the night before — Tom seated on the edge of his bed with Detective West next to him, his first aid supplies spread out across the bed. “I can get it myself,” Tom says, but makes no move to do so and Detective West ignores the comment, just keeps dabbing ointment onto his face.

Tom tries to think of the last time he felt a gentle touch. There’s been men — strangers — who’ve put their hands on him in cheap motel beds and behind buildings, pressed against grimy brick walls, but that’s been about nothing more than sex. Lucy hadn’t let him touch her in any kind of way since long before the kids went missing. When he’d come home from Detective West’s apartment with his face still bruised, she’d only looked at him and scoffed.

“I don’t think anything needed stitches,” Detective West says, smoothing a fresh band-aid over Tom’s cheek, “but that one’s probably gonna scar. Cops say you threw the first punch.”

“Yeah,” Tom mumbles, elaborating no further. He can feel Detective West’s eyes on him, evaluating him like he did when the case was still open. Back then Tom supposes he was trying to decide if Tom was telling the truth about his kids. Now, he isn’t sure what Detective West is searching for in his face. He never tries to hide that he’s looking. Detective West stares him down openly. Tom’s jealous to some degree — he’s never been able to look other men in the eye for long, especially not when they’re so close.

“How’s the wrist?” Detective West asks, his hand landing over it. He lifts Tom’s arm and encircles his wrist with his fingers, probing gently with his thumb.

Tom swallows hard, watching Detective West’s fingers on his skin. “It’s fine. Better.”

Detective West releases his hold. His hand retreats back to his side. When Tom glances toward him, he finds he has that same searching look on his face, like he’s trying to read Tom’s mind.

“You should get some more sleep, Tom,” Detective West tells him, standing and moving back over to his side of the room. “You still look tired.”

Tom nods as he tries to remember when he went from being Mr. Purcell to Tom. He supposes it was that night spent on his couch. The night is a blurred montage in his mind. Sitting outside the Sawhorse in his car drinking, working up the courage to go inside. Getting punched, blood dripping down his mouth, crying in the car, then being on a couch in an unfamiliar apartment with Detective West hovering nearby. When he woke up, the man was sitting in the armchair, coffee in hand, watching him. If he hadn’t been wearing different clothes, Tom might’ve thought he spent the whole night planted there.

“I’ll be here,” Detective West says when Tom makes no move to lie back down.

“What’re you gonna do? Just sit there?” Tom asks.

“Yep,” Detective West says with a grin, already settling onto his bed and propping himself up with pillows. “Watch some TV, call it a vacation.”

Tom frowns, but finally puts his body in motion, lying down and settling back under the covers. There’s the low hum of the television, so low Tom isn’t sure the other man is truly listening to it at all, and the quiet sounds of him breathing one bed over. Tom sighs into his pillow and lets sleep pull him back under.

 

* * *

 

They spend the rest of the day like that, with Tom drifting in and out of sleep on his bed and Detective West watching reruns from his. Sometimes he snorts under his breath at something on the television. A few times there’s the metallic click of his lighter and the smell of tobacco. Tom wakes up once to find the other man is still propped up, remote in hand, but with his chin tipped to his chest, snoring. Tom lays there, watching him from his own bed. He’s got his legs stretched out long in front of him, boots off and stored by the dresser, but is otherwise sleeping there fully dressed. He really doesn’t look much different nowadays from back then. A little older around the eyes maybe, the hair shorter. Detective West jerks awake mid-snore and Tom shuts his eyes again.

Around sundown, Detective West leaves the room to pick up dinner. Tom watches him cross the parking lot below from the window. Even with the limp, his stride is still confident, sure of himself. Tom can’t say he’s ever seen him unsure of himself, even when he had the cane. Even in pain, the man still had his dignity about him. It’s not something Tom could say about himself.

The bruises still ache and the cuts still sting, but Detective West has been setting ibuprofen on the nightstand at whatever interval he’s deemed necessary. Between that and the bedrest, Tom is feeling better than he has any right to. Other than wanting a drink, that is. Having watched Detective West depart in his car, Tom fishes his flask from the pocket of a dirty shirt in his bag. He downs most of it, then swishes mouthwash at the sink. As if Detective West hadn’t picked him up from the local drunk tank. As if Tom really has any reason to bother hiding it. Then, he pulls on his cleanest pair of jeans, tired of having spent the entire day lying around in his boxers.

If Detective West smells the booze on his breath when he returns, he doesn’t mention it. They sit together at the little wooden table again, burgers and fries spread across its scratched surface. The television’s still on in the background, though neither of them are really watching it. They’re focused on their food in silence. Detective West doesn’t speak up until they’re mostly done, just picking idly at the remainder of the fries.

“I thought about you, y’know, over the years,” he says. “I was worried about how you were doing out there.”

Tom stills, pushes down the _why_ that wants to escape his throat. He says instead, “I told you I could take care of myself.”

“So you said,” Detective West says, his eyes roving across Tom’s battered face, “but you’ll excuse me if we disagree on that.”

His jaw clenches tight. Tom wants to spit out _I didn’t ask you to come here_ but he did, this time. “I didn’t ask you to care.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Tom.” His gaze is steady on Tom’s face. “Don’t think you pick who you get to care about.”

“Well, maybe you ought to work on figuring out how to pick someone else,” Tom snaps, avoiding his eyes. It’s becoming suffocating, the concern written openly across Detective West’s face — concern from a man who is hardly more than a stranger to him, who he knows little to nothing about in return. He feels trapped, his world narrowed down to this small room and this man.

“I imagine that’s the kind of attitude that’s landed you with having no one to call but me for help,” Detective West says. His tone is casual, not angry in the slightest, even as the words burn through Tom.

“Fuck you,” Tom mutters as he stands. He can feel his face flushed with anger.

He yanks his shoes on at the door, then storms out of the room without looking back. Detective West doesn’t try to stop him. He goes down the stairwell and past the front desk, a different woman on duty tonight. She starts at the sight of his battered face, the bruises on his bare arms. He walks out of the hotel, the cold night wind catching him immediately and raising goosebumps along his arms. He shivers, shoving his hands in his jean pockets, but doesn’t stop walking, even as his bruised stomach clenches in pain.

His car keys are in his pocket. He could get in his car and just leave, but then there’s his bag, still on the floor in the room. Somewhere at the bottom of it is an envelope full of photographs, cardboard taped around it to keep them from creasing. He strides past his car instead and takes off walking in a random direction. He’s thinking about walking until he finds a bar until he realizes his wallet’s back in the room too, still tucked in the police station’s plastic bag. He keeps walking anyway, just wanting to be anywhere other than that room with Detective West’s eyes on him.

He doesn’t it make it very far before the cold and the aching of his bruised stomach convinces him to turn back. He’s considering just sleeping in the back seat of his car, but when he gets back, Detective West is standing outside, leaned up against the trunk of his car. Tom slows to a stop in front of him.

“You didn’t take a keycard with you,” Detective West says. He taps ash from his cigarette.

“I could’ve knocked,” Tom replies. Annoyance rises in him, but it doesn’t get much farther than that. Just walking seems to have driven most of the fight from him, leaving him just tired again.

Shrugging, Detective West flicks his half-smoked cigarette to the ground next to its twin and crushes it beneath his heel. He turns to head back inside with Tom trailing after him. The woman at the front desk is too occupied with handing keycards to a young couple to notice them. There’s three children crowded around the couple, all with backpacks in hand, excited and awake despite the late hour. Tom follows Detective West past them to the elevator, only to hear the family walking behind them, their luggage rattling. The elevator doors open with a ding and Tom steps inside.

“Let me help you with that, ma’am,” Detective West says, holding the elevator doors open with one hand.

“Oh, thank you!” the woman says, smiling as Detective West takes a second suitcase from her hands and hauls it into the elevator.

The children file in behind their parents in a riot of chatter. Tom keeps his head down, but he still catches the woman and her husband’s nervous glances at his bruised face.

“Family vacation, huh?” Detective West asks, drawing their attention back to himself, all smiles and Southern charm.

“Yep,” the man says, exchanging smiles with his wife. He looks at his noisy brood of children with affection clear in his face. “Took them out of school for a bit for a family road trip.”

“Well, safe travels,” Detective West says as the family disembarks on the second floor. He hefts the suitcase out of the elevator again for them as they thank him.

Him and Tom take the elevator in silence back to the third floor. Tom’s chewing his lip, feeling like he’s been punched in the stomach again. He tries to think if he ever took his own kids on any trips. Growing up, his parents hadn’t had the means for that kind of thing, beyond his dad taking him out fishing a few times. He’d promised himself it’d be different for his kids — that’d he’d save up enough cash to take them someplace. There had been a handful of drives out to his parents’ place in Shreveport, but those had always been stressful events. Lucy was always on edge and more inclined than usual to pick fights. The kids had mostly just sat in the back seat, quiet and still, as him and Lucy alternated between arguing and stormy silence.

The only real trip he can remember was one day he drove them a couple hours north to a little zoo. It’d just been the three of them, spur of the moment, Lucy off god only knows where. It had been one of the closest things to a perfect day he could recall. They had stopped for sandwiches at lunch at a little roadside stall when Julie had started getting antsy in the backseat. They spent the whole day at that little zoo, making multiple loops of the entire place, not returning home until after dark. Not even Lucy snapping at him when they came in the front door had been able to ruin the day.

“Tom.”

He snaps his head up, realizes the elevator is open on their floor and he’s still standing inside. Detective West is in the hallway, one arm out to keep the doors from closing on him. Tom shakes his head and steps out. When they get back into their room, Tom paws through his bag until he finds a plastic bottle still half full of whiskey. He sits down on the bed and starts drinking. He expects Detective West to try to stop him, but instead he just takes a seat next to Tom and holds out his hand out. Tom passes him the bottle and he takes a long swig.

“So, what’s the plan, Tom?” he asks, passing the bottle back. “Just keep running yourself into the ground?”

“I don’t know,” Tom admits, too tired to even pick up their fight from where they left off. “It’s not like I ever had any plan.”

They keep passing the bottle until it’s empty. Tom drops backwards onto the bed, sighing, letting his legs dangle. He hears the muffled thud of Detective West tossing the empty bottle into the trash bin. The bed dips as he lays down next to Tom, their shoulders pressing together. They lie together in silence until Tom opens his eyes and twists to look at Detective West, only to find him already staring.

“Detective,” he starts to say.

“Roland,” he corrects. “I’m not here on business, Tom. You can call me Roland.”

“Roland,” Tom says instead, losing track of what he was about to say, caught instead on the sound of the other man’s name on his own tongue. He thinks of his apartment — the western movies on VHS stacked by his television set, the wooden animals on his bookshelf, the floral-patterned pillow he had given to Tom to sleep on. How he had looked when Tom finally saw him after the shootout, leaning hard on a cane and biting down a grimace with every step he took. The worry written plain as day on his face when Tom had left town. How he always looks at Tom that way, and Tom had convinced himself that maybe he just looked at anyone worthy of his pity that way but then maybe — “Roland.”

Roland’s expression has cracked open into something Tom can’t begin to interpret. He’s just buzzed enough to lean over and drag their mouths together without hesitation. Roland groans into his mouth, working his arms around Tom and pulling him onto his lap. Tom presses close, keeps kissing Roland until he tastes blood.

“Hey,” Roland whispers, pulling back. He thumbs over Tom’s lower lip, smearing blood bright across the pad of his finger. “Careful.”

Tom blinks at him. Roland’s eyes are fixed on his mouth where Tom can feel blood still beading up from his reopened split lip. Roland swallows, then leans in and licks slow over the cut. Tom groans, letting his eyes slip shut, thinking of his blood on Roland’s tongue, in his mouth. His blood on Roland’s fingers all the way back in ‘80, wiping it from his chin with a dishtowel as Tom swayed on his couch.

“I don’t like seeing you getting hurt like this,” Roland whispers against his mouth. His fingers trace over the bruises across Tom’s face. “Even before, at that bar—”

“Did you want to do this, before?” Tom asks, opening his eyes. “Back then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Roland admits. His eyes are wide open, his brow furrowed like he’s confused, like he isn’t quite sure what he’s doing as he slides close again. He’s holding Tom’s face in both hands as presses his lips to Tom’s split lip, the cut on his cheekbone, to every little cut and bruise scattered across his face. Gentle, like he always is, but this time Tom lets himself sway into his hands. Lets himself match him, touch for touch, spreading one hand over Roland’s throat to feel his pulse jumping beneath the warmth of his skin.

It feels good to be wanted by someone who knows him for what he is. Who has seen him in his ugliest moments and still wants him, even if Tom can’t begin to understand why. He drags his hands down Roland’s chest, his fingers fumbling drunkenly at the buttons of his shirt until Roland laughs and pushes them away. He makes quick work of the shirt himself, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. Roland presses his hands under Tom’s undershirt and helps him pull off. He rolls them over, pressing Tom beneath him against the bed, only to sit back and stare down at him.

“What?” Tom asks, breathless, half-worried Roland’s in the midst of suddenly regretting what they’re about to do.

“Just looking at you,” Roland says, his eyes tracing a path down his bare chest to his hard-on straining at his jeans. “Christ, Tom.”

“I’m not so beat up I can’t do this,” Tom replies. Even now, he wants to hide from Roland’s watchful eyes.

Roland laughs, laying a hand on Tom’s chest. “I didn’t mean the bruises, I meant you.”

“Me,” Tom echoes, frowning.

“You need to learn how to take a compliment,” Roland breathes against his skin, leaning over to drag his lips over Tom’s collarbone and down his chest.

As if any of Tom’s encounters with men were the kind where compliments were exchanged. He wonders what kind of relationships Roland’s had with other men, because Tom’s short encounters never made this much time for just kissing. He wonders about those other men, then Roland is mouthing over the front of his jeans and Tom is fixed firmly in the present.

 

* * *

 

Tom wakes in confusion, feeling an arm slung tight around his waist. Half-awake, he thinks he’s fumbled his way into another one night stand before he remembers. Roland. He feels his breath soft and slow against the back of his neck. The room is just beginning to lighten around them as dawn approaches, the hum of the highway already started up outside. He lies there motionless. His mind is still fuzzy enough that he can lie here without overthinking things. Roland’s pressed close, his warmth radiating against Tom’s back. Tom sighs, shifting. Roland’s arm tightens around him like even in sleep, he’s still watching out for him.

Roland eventually starts to wake, sighing his way into consciousness. He mumbles into his hair, “Morning.”

“Morning,” Tom yawns back, actually feeling a smile tug at the corners of his lips.

Roland’s fingertips trace along Tom’s stomach, then over Tom’s bandaged wrist down to his scabbed over knuckles. He smooths his thumb over them, sighing.

“How come you picked that fight?” he asks, his voice still low and raspy with sleep. His lips brush the back of Tom’s neck with every word. “Were you just looking to get hurt?”

Tom shrugs his free shoulder. “There was a…couple of men. Not so tough looking. This big guy was calling ‘em queers, trying to start something,” Tom says, already feeling the anger roiling back up in his gut at the memory. “Usually I wouldn’t go getting involved, but I—I just thought of every time someone told me—said something to me and I just snapped.”

He lets Roland turn him onto his back. He leans over Tom on one elbow, his other hand occupied with stroking along his face. “Why don’t you come on back with me?”

“What?” Tom asks.

“Come stay with me. However long you need. Indefinitely. Whatever you want.” The expression on Roland’s face is frightening in its sincerity, caught between hope and fear.

“That’s…” Tom says, surprise making the words catch in his throat, “not a good idea.”

“Really?” Roland forces a smile. “Best idea I’ve had in a while.”

Tom stares back at him before asking, “Did you really think about me?”

“While you were gone?” Roland asks, his gaze unwavering. “More than you know, Tom.”

He tries to picture it — Roland, alone, thinking about him. In his apartment, on his armchair, staring at the couch. In his car where Tom had sat before, had cried before, had bled before. At his desk at the station, going through papers. Thinking about him while Tom was god knows how many miles away doing the same thing, no matter how hard he tried not to. He thought about his children, about Lucy, and about Roland. He couldn’t say how many times he held Roland’s note in his hands and decided not to make the call.

“Think about it,” Roland says when Tom doesn’t answer. “We still got the room for another day.”

“Yeah, we do,” Tom agrees, pulling Roland down into a kiss, feeling him smile against his lips.

 

* * *

 

They spend most of the day in the room, and most of that time in bed, only leaving for food. Tom comes along with Roland both times. He claims to be in need of fresh air, though really it’s because he doesn’t want to let Roland out of his sight quite yet. He lingers outside of the fast food joint as Roland goes in to order, not wanting to deal with people staring at his face. Roland’s jacket is hanging from his shoulders again. They’d been ready to step out the door when Roland had slung it over his shoulders with a smile. Tom leans against the car, smoking, watching Roland inside at the counter until he comes back out, paper bag in hand.

By the early morning, they’re laid out on one of the beds, passing a cigarette back and forth. Tom’s pulled on his boxers, feeling something like shyness when they’re not in the midst of it, but Roland has no such qualms. He’s stretched out naked on top of the sheets, easy in his own skin. He stretches out one arm to stub the cigarette out in the ashtray.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, easing an arm around Tom’s shoulders.

Tom lets himself be pulled over, settling his head on Roland’s chest. “Y’know, I didn’t figure you for the cuddling type.”

“What did you figure me for?” Roland snorts, smiling.

“Dunno,” Tom admits, pressing his face to Roland’s skin, hiding his eyes. “I don’t know much about you.”

“You know more than you probably think you do,” Roland says.

Tom pulls back to look at him. He swallows. “I know you do an awful lot of thinking about me for somebody like yourself. I think you must be lonelier than you come across.”

Roland traces his fingers down Tom’s shoulder. “Maybe so.”

Tom lets his head drop back down. His eyes slip shut. He can feel sleep approaching on the edges of his consciousness. He thinks again of Roland in his little apartment, sitting alone in his armchair, watching television, smoking.

“Alright,” he mumbles against his chest, already halfway to sleep.

“Alright what?” Roland whispers back.

“I’ll come on back with you.”

 

* * *

 

They pack up their stuff Sunday morning, not that there’s much to pack. Just two duffel bags, one each. They head downstairs together, passing the pool where the young family from yesterday is busy splashing and laughing. Tom startles when Roland reaches over to squeeze his fingers, just once, quick, but they’re still in a public enough place that Tom’s pulse jumps.

He stands outside by the cars to wait while Roland checks out at the front desk. Clouds are still hanging heavy and grey in the sky above, though the wind’s at least died down. Tom’s got Roland’s jacket on again — Roland keeps tucking him into it like he’s worried about Tom catching a cold, but Tom keeps humoring him. Out in the light, he can spot a few smudges of dried blood on its collar.

“Hey,” Roland says, strolling up, car keys jangling in his hand. He unlocks his car and tosses his bag into the trunk. “Don’t get lost on the way.”

“I remember how to get there,” Tom says with a snort.

Roland smiles at him. Tom wants to kiss him again, but he won’t, not out here in the parking lot. Instead, he gets into his car and waits for Roland. When Roland pulls out of the parking lot, Tom follows him out past the hotel’s sign and back onto the highway.


End file.
